


International Dibs Protocol

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: At Least I Think I'm Funny, Background Relationships, Canon-typical language, Fluff, Food, Gen, Non-Canonical Character Death, Or is it Gold Team Shenanigans?, Some Humor, Swearing, red team shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12389349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Bitters decides he needs to cheer Grif up, even if it means enlisting help from Matthews.Or, in an unlikely team up, Bitters and Matthews raid Green Team's kitchen.





	International Dibs Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as "Strings Attached". It's an AU where Simmons didn't survive the fight at the end of S. 13 (This isn't really sad though, I promise!). Let me know if I didn't tag anything correctly.
> 
> This is my first time writing from Bitters's POV, so bear with me!

Antoine Bitters knows he’s got to do something. It’s been two months, and, while he’s not one for sentiment, it’s killing him to see Captain Grif so… lost.

You wouldn’t know, just looking at him. He still acts like his lazy, cynical self, quick to insult and slow to anger. Still eats his dinner and asks if you’re _gonna finish that_. But there are signs and, not to brag, but Bitters is pretty good at pinpointing people’s tells.

First of all, Grif is up before everyone else. Sometimes, Bitters wakes up to pee around 0400 to find his captain is already awake and chilling in Orange Team’s common area. _If_ he went to sleep at all, that is. The orange soldier is usually on his datapad. When Bitters nods in greeting, not an uncommon exchange—if it weren’t taking place in the middle of the goddamn night.

Then there’s the extra chest of belongings tucked beneath Grif’s bunk, the pair of glasses resting on his bedside table. Should Bitters have been snooping in the captain’s quarters? Probably not. But then Grif shouldn’t have changed the hiding spot for his snack stash.

Speaking of—Grif’s snack stashes. They’re non-existent. Bitters can’t find them anywhere, and he knows it’s not because his investigative prowess has failed him. And after Bitters watched Grif empty the contents of his bag to make room for the banjo, his suspicions were confirmed.

And then there’s the silence. It’s too quiet. It took a few days for Bitters to realize why—there’s a complete absence of bickering. It had become white noise, and now that it’s gone, nothing’s taken its place.

It isn’t just Captain Grif, either.

Sarge’s crusade against the ‘Blues’ has all but halted, with a few gruff insults thrown here and there. His shotgun, usually on his back or in his hands, has been stored in the armory. Lopez polishes the shotgun several times a day and puts himself to work fixing things and building new vehicles. The robot makes two of everything.

Donut, who Bitters pegged for someone unafraid to let it all out, flits about the base, doing chores, tending to Doc, who’s still in the infirmary, huge smile plastered on his face. Jensen goes running a lot more than she used to, and Bitters suspects she visits her late captain’s grave daily, having run into her there more than once.

Sarge has Grey, Lopez has his tools, Donut has Doc, and Jensen has Volleyball.

_And_ , Bitters concludes with a sigh, _that leaves Grif with me_.

But how do you cheer up a guy who was apathetic and lethargic _before_ the love of his fucking life was taken from him?

Bitters is great at observation. He could tell Smith switched from regular conditioner to coconut oil and when Donut switched up his foundation. He knew when Jensen and Volleyball were dating before they did. And, while he’ll never admit it to anyone, he always knew there was something… _off_ about Felix.

The lieutenant is quick to _see_ a problem. Solving it is another matter entirely.

He tries to think. What can he do to cheer the guy up? Not that he’s under the impression he can ‘fix’ things. Obviously, it’s going to take time. And Bitters has lost enough people to know even time isn’t always enough.

Food? Television? A new bed?

No. No. No. Bitters shoves the ideas aside with increasing frustration. He’s no good at this.

But he knows someone who is.

Glaring at the ceiling, wide awake at 0237, Bitters lets out a groan.

Abbot, his bunkmate, kicks his mattress from below.

“Shut the fuck up, Bitters, some of us are _sleeping_ here!”

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and plopping down onto the floor, Bitters grabs Abbot’s mattress and yanks it from the bunk.

“ _Agh_ _fucking hell_!” Abbot yowls.

“Jesus, Abbot, you’re gonna wake up the whole base,” Bitters whispers. Leaving Abbot writhing around in tangled sheets on the floor, the lieutenant grabs his hoodie and leaves the room.

It’s a short walk to Bunk 13C. Fifty feet down the hall, last door on the left. Bitters punches ‘open’ on the keypad, flipping on the light as he enters the room. A chorus of protests greets him, and someone chucks a pillow at his face. It lands way off on his left.

“Nice throw, jackass,” Bitters snorts. Searching the faces in the room, he calls out, “Matthews!”

“Wha?” Bitters sees a shock of straw-colored hair pop up on top of the last bunk. Matthews rubs his eyes as if he can’t believe Bitters is standing there. “Bitters?”

“Come on, Matthews,” Bitters says. He turns and walks out of the room, not waiting to see if Matthews is following him. Because he knows he will. Two-forty in the morning or two-forty in the afternoon, Matthews is incapable of saying ‘no’.

Once out in the hallway, Matthews asks, “It’s so early, Bitters, what’s going on?”

Before answering, Bitters takes off down the hall in the direction of the kitchens.

“Come on, we need brain food,” Bitters says. Matthews, still half asleep, stumbles along behind him.

There’s a shuffling of feet, a curse, and Bitters suddenly finds himself flat on his face as Matthews bowls into him.

“Damn it, Matthews, watch where you’re going!” Bitters snaps, massaging his smarting jaw. That was probably going to bruise. Of course.

“Sorry, Bitters, I tripped,” Matthews says. He’s already on his feet, offering a hand to Bitters.

“On what?” Bitters asks, rising without taking Matthews hand. He has a reputation as the bad boy to uphold, he can stand up on his own, thank you. Matthews takes his outstretched hand and runs it through his hair, face red.

He mumbles something.

“Huh?”

“I tripped on the hem of my pants,” Matthews repeats.

“Matthews, you’re going to make me regret letting you in on this, aren’t you?” Bitters lets out a sigh.

“Letting me in?” Matthews perks up. “In on what?”

“Patience, Matthews, patience,” Bitters says. “Food first.”

Bitters can tell Matthews is ready to burst, but the guy keeps his mouth shut the rest of the way to the kitchens.

No one else is there—probably because it’s almost 0300. Guards occasionally patrol this area, but not so much lately. Haven’t had to watch their backs as much after the Reds and Blues took down the Chairman, even if tensions _are_ building between Chorus and the UNSC.

Bitters makes a beeline for the freezer. Matthews—predictably—hangs back.

“Should we _really_ be in he—wait isn’t that Abbot’s ice cream?” Matthews squawks.

With a shrug, Bitters rummages around for a spoon.

“Don’t see his name on it,” he says, removing the lid.

“But—yes, yes it is, his name is right on the l—” Matthews starts to argue, but Bitters chucks the lid across the room and into the trash.

“Boom,” he deadpans. Satisfied, he hoists himself up onto the counter and digs into the unclaimed ice cream.

Five minutes pass in awkward silence—Bitters shoving spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth, Matthews whistling and drumming his fingers on the wall he’s leaning against—before Bitters turns his attention to more important matters.

“Fffuuhuuck,” Bitters groans, clutching his head. Matthews gasps and sprints over to the ailing lieutenant.

“What is it?!” he asks.

“Brain freeze!” Bitters hisses through his teeth.

“You _did_ eat all that ice cream _pretty_ fast,” Matthews says.

“Fuck you, Matthews,” Bitters snaps. He presses his thumb to the roof of his mouth in an attempt to get rid of the headache. Once it’s gone, Bitters straightens up and turns to face Matthews.

“We have a problem, Matthews,” Bitters says.

“We do?” Matthews asks, eyes wide.

“Sure do,” Bitters says.

“Well… what is it?” Matthews asks when Bitters doesn’t continue right away. Bitters feels a twinge of annoyance. Tossing his spoon at the sink—and missing—he crosses his arms.

“We’re out of coffee, Matthews,” Bitters declares at last.

Matthews raises and eyebrow and looks over at the counter. Two containers of coffee grounds—one regular, one decaf—are sitting next to the coffee maker.

“But… we _do_ have coffee,” Matthews says.

“We are. Completely. Out. Of coffee.” Bitters narrows his eyes. Matthews ogles him back. He isn’t picking up what Bitters is throwing down.

“Are the containers empty?” asks Matthews. He turns and takes a step towards the counter.

“ _Completely_ ,” Bitters insists, grabbing Matthews by the arm to hold him back.

“Uh… oh…Okay, if you say so, Bitters.” Matthews.

“I do say so,” Bitters says. “You know who _does_ have coffee?”

“We do.”

“Dammit, Matthews, I told you not to make me regret this.”

“I don’t know, Bitters,” Matthews says. “You’re starting to make _me_ regret this.”

Since when did Matthews get so snarky? Bitters wonders. Then again, since when did Bitters make an effort to interact with Matthews?

Desperate times, desperate measures, he supposes.

“Here’s the thing.” Bitters sighs. “The _dirt_ sitting over on that counter is made of sadness and broken dreams.”

“I don’t think you can physically drink sadness and broken dreams,” Matthews says.

“So, you agree it’s dirt, then?” Bitters asks.

“Well, not—” Matthews starts to protest.

Bitters raises and eyebrow.

“… Yes, the coffee is pretty terrible,” Matthews admits.

“Good, we agree on _something_ , at least,” Bitters says. “Now, let’s go.”

Bitters leaps off the counter and takes off. Matthews starts to say something, but Bitters is already out the door. He takes a left and makes his way down the hall. There’s a bang as Matthews bursts from the kitchen and footsteps as he scrambles after Bitters.

“Where are we going, Bitters?” Matthews asks once he catches up. “This is the way to—”

The realization hits Matthews and he looks up at Bitters, horrified.

“You want to steal Agent Washington’s coffee!” Matthews cries.

“Keep your voice down,” Bitters hisses.

“How could you even _think_ of stealing from a _superior_?” Matthews goes on. He doesn’t lower his voice—in fact, it shoots up an octave. “This is a bad idea and I _won’t_ be a part of it!”

Matthews is killing him. Bitters looks around to see if anyone’s getting curious, but so far no one has appeared, and the only sound—apart from Matthews protests—is the hum of the fluorescent lights.

“Then why are you still following me?” Bitters asks. They’re getting closer to Green Team’s section of the base, and Matthews has yet to turn tail and run.

“To stop you from doing anything stupid!”

“I’d like to see you try,” Bitters snorts.

“Don’t think—ah!” Matthews trips on the hem of his pants again, but Bitters grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him back to balance him out.

Matthews looks shocked, as if he expected Bitters to let him fall. Bitters is shocked, because he expected he’d let Matthews fall. For a second they stare at each other, eyebrows furrowed. Then Matthews straightens up and crosses his arms.

“Don’t think I won’t!” he huffs as if nothing happened.

Bitters rolls his eyes and pushes past Matthews as he continues down the hallway.

Matthews follows right behind, but he doesn’t say anything more. Bitters can feel Matthews’s glare burning into the back of his skull, and he almost sighs and relief when they reach Green Team’s hallway.

There’s no sign on the wall that says, “Welcome to Green Team”. There’s no flag, no green paint or lighting. The only difference between Gold Team’s corridor and this one is that the room numbers end in F instead of C.

Oh, and the bullet holes dotting the walls.

Caboose was technically not assigned to this hallway, but try telling _him_ that. Caboose lives where Agent Washington lives, and… that means Freckles lives in Green Team’s section too.

Bitters kicks himself for forgetting the robot-gun’s existence and prays Caboose is a heavy sleeper.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and Bitters jumps about eight feet into the air.

_Matthews. It’s Matthews, dumbass._

“Where’s their kitchen?” Matthews hisses.

“It’s just up ar—hang on, I thought you were trying to stop me?” Bitters raises an eyebrow at Matthews, who goes red.

“Well, it’s just!” Matthews looks down, inspecting his feet. “I know there’s no stopping you, so I might as well make sure you don’t get caught.”

“Make sure _we_ don’t get caught,” Bitters corrects him, crossing his arms.

Matthews looks ready to protest, but he knows Bitters is right.

“Yes, we,” he huffs. Bitters bites back a grin and presses on.

There’s still no sign of any Green Team members—or, more importantly, Caboose and Freckles—as they reach the kitchen. And it looks… pretty much exactly like Orange Team’s kitchen. Bitters isn’t sure why he expected it to be different.

“Look!” Matthews taps Bitters on the shoulder, a gesture that would’ve normally annoyed him if it wasn’t for the object of his companion’s excitement.

And there it is, over on the counter, it’s package shining in the bluish light.

Coffee.

Like, the good shit.

Bitters can tell because as he rushes up to the counter, its aroma hits his nose. He grabs the bag, puts his face right up next to it, and inhales—fresh and rich and even a bit chocolatey. And it’s better than anything he’s ever pilfered from Grif’s stash.

“Wow, you really like coffee,” Matthews says.

Bitters, remembering where he is and who he’s with, pulls his face away from the coffee.

“I have to make sure it’s legit, don’t I?” Bitters snaps, crossing his arms. “There’s no point in stealing _more_ shitty coffee, Matthews.”

“Right.”

Bitters has the sudden urge to punch the smug grin from Matthews’s face. Matthews, seeming to sense Bitters’s rising annoyance, frowns and glances over his shoulder.

“We should go, before someone sees us,” Matthews says.

“Or,” Bitter says.

“Or?” Matthews raises a suspicious eyebrow.

Bitters looks over at the coffee maker—Christ, even their _coffee maker_ is better—and back at Matthews.

“You know, I think you want to get caught,” Matthews cries, throwing his hands up in the air. “Well, count me out sir, I got you this far—”

“Followed me this far,” Bitters interrupts.

“I’ve followed you this far,” Matthews continues, “But this is where I leave you.”

“Suit yourself, Matthews,” Bitters says with a shrug. “More coffee for me.”

Matthews’s gaze drops to the bag of coffee clutched in Bitters’s hands. Bites his bottom lip. Bitters grins—he knows he’s won.

“Fine, you win,” Matthews sighs. He plops down on the nearest bar stool. “It’s not like I’m going to be able to go back to sleep after this anyway.”

“No,” Bitters agrees, striding towards the coffee maker, “Because you’ll be caffeinated as shit.”

Matthews groans, mumbles something under his breath, but follows him to the counter anyway.

_Filters, filters…_

Bitters rummages through three cupboards before he finds them. He pulls one out, lays it gently inside the top of the coffee maker, fills the pot with water, and dumps the liquid into the machine. Last, but not least, Bitters opens the bag of coffee grounds, tips it, and shakes some into the filter.

“How long does it take to make?” Matthews asks.

“I don’t know, Matthews, ten minutes?” Bitters answers.

“That’s a long time,” Matthews says.

“And I thought _I_ was impatient,” Bitters says. He rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and turns to glare at the now bubbling coffee maker.

A few minutes pass. Bitters watches as the coffee drips down into the pot, wondering if it really is going to taste as good as it smells.

Matthews paces around the kitchen—from the fridge to the counter, the counter to the pantry, and then from the pantry back to the fridge.

The coffee pot is about half full when Matthews halts and spins on his heel to face Bitters. He opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut, looking over his shoulder at the kitchen door.

Bitters raises an eyebrow. Wonders how long he’ll have to wait before Matthews spits it out.

“Why did you need my… ‘help’ with this?” he asks at last, crossing his arms.

“Easy,” Bitters says, “If we get caught, you’ll trip on your own pants while I escape.”

“So… you brought me here to take the blame?” Matthews asks. Bitters tries to ignore the hurt (what hurt? Matthews always sounds like that) in his voice and shrugs.

“I’m not cut out for punishment,” Bitters says. “Hear they make you do pushups and take away rations.”

“For stealing coffee.” It’s not a question. The hurt is gone, replaced by skepticism.

Bitters just shrugs again.

“Bitters, why are we _really_ here,” Matthews demands.

The coffeemaker gurgles, releasing a puff of steam. Bitters slinks over to the cupboard and pulls out two mugs.

Pouring some of the liquid caffeine into the mugs, Bitters slides one over to Matthews, who ogles it for about three seconds before scooping it up.

Bitters blows on his coffee, brings the mug to his lips, and takes a sip.

“Fuck yeah,” he says.

It’s the best coffee he’s ever tasted. Come to think of it, this shit is better than the stuff his mom made before the war started, before the dirt-coffee.

Matthews takes a drink of his own coffee and groans. Enough said.

Unfortunately, even the best goddamn coffee on the planet isn’t enough to slow Matthews down.

“So?” he says, setting his mug on the counter. “This can’t be it, you didn’t need to bring me along for coffee. You certainly aren’t known for your generosity.”

Bitters raises his eyebrows and smacks his forehead, as if he’s just remembered something. Matthews blinks, taken aback.

“Holy shit, Matthews, you know what?” Bitters says, his voice raising with artificial excitement, “I _did_ bring you here for another reason!”

“Shh!” Matthews hisses, looking over his shoulder at the kitchen door once more. Then he whispers, “What did you bring me here for then?”

“I need your help carrying everything back to Gold Team’s kitchen,” Bitters says.

Matthews looks at Bitters. Then he looks at the bag of coffee grounds. Then at the coffee maker, which is half empty now. His eyebrows furrow in confusion—

And then they shoot up, disappearing into his messy blond hair.

“Everything?” he squeaks.

“Everything,” Bitters repeats, sauntering over to the cupboard nearest to the fridge.

He yanks it open, revealing several boxes of MREs, some more coffee grounds, snack cakes, and other junk food. Ever since the fight against Felix and Locus ended, supply runs have been more fruitful. That, and they could finally receive shipments from other planets again.

So, Bitters isn’t _too_ broken up—well, he’s not broken up _at all_ —about raiding Green Team’s snack stash.

“You can’t be serious!” Matthews exclaims.

He scrambles over to where Bitters is standing and reaches for the cupboard to slam it shut. Bitters holds his arm up and pushes him away, using his other arm to sweep everything off the bottom shelf onto the floor.

“Oh, shit,” he deadpans. “Well, we can’t just leave it there.”

Bitters stoops down and grabs an armload of snacks. Placing them on the counter, he looks around the room for something to carry them away in.

He starts flinging cupboards open, sliding drawers open with a _bang_ , and rummaging around in the silverware, letting a few forks clatter to the floor.

“What are you doing, Bitters?” Matthews hisses. “You’re gonna wake someone up!”

“What?” Bitters shouts. “You’re going to have to speak up, Matthews!”

“I _said_ —”

“What?!”

“I—”

“Huh?”

“I SAID WHAT ARE YOU DOING, BITTERS?” Matthews yells. He claps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide with terror.

“Sheesh, Matthews, no need to yell,” Bitters says.

Somewhere out in the corridor, a door opens with a _hiss_. The sound of voices begins to fill the hallway, and they’re getting louder every second.

Bitters finds a small sack under the sink and starts shoving snacks into it.

“Okay, Matthews,” Bitters says, tucking the bag under his arm. “Grab some shit and let’s go.”

For a moment it looks like Matthews is going to back out the door and leave Bitters to fend for himself. Not that Bitters would be surprised—it’s against every fiber of this guy’s being to go against orders, or, you know, rob someone. Bitters has no such qualms, and if he’s going to start a fight, stealing food is the quickest way to do so.

“I never should have come here with you,” Matthews mutters before reaching inside the cupboard and grabbing several bags of coffee and some granola bars.

“No turning back now,” Bitters says. With that, he makes for the door and slams his fist on the pad.

The door hisses open, revealing two groggy Green Team members.

And, joy of all joys, one of those Green Team members happens to be Palomo.

Without waiting for Palomo and his pal to register what’s going on, Bitters barrels through them, knocking them over.

Palomo squawks something unintelligible and tries to grab Bitters’s ankle. Bitters leaps over his outstretched hand and takes off down the hall, bare feet smacking the smooth, cold floor. He can hear Matthews behind him, telltale sound of plastic-wrapped snacks hitting the floor.

Together they sprint back to Gold Team’s section of the base. By now Palomo and his other teammate—Gomez, Bitters thinks—are back on their feet and chasing after them.

“Bitters, you _fuck_ , get back here!” Palomo shouts.

“Nah!” Bitters calls over his shoulder.

“‘Nah’? Is that… all you have… to say? No witty one-liners?” Matthews asks, out of breath. And Bitters thought _he_ was bad at running.

“Matthews, do I seem like the type of guy who uses ‘witty one-liners’?” Bitters shoots back as they round another corner. Not much farther now.

“I… guess not,” Matthews pants.

They’re almost to Gold Team’s kitchen when it happens. Later, Bitters will say he should have seen it coming.

There’s a small gasp behind him, and when Bitters glances over his shoulder to see what happened he’s met with Matthews face inches away from his own, mid-trip. The little shit tripped on his pajama pants again.

Bitters opens his mouth to curse—

—and stars explode before his eyes as Matthews’s head collides with his face and the floor rushes up to meet him.

The bag of junk food goes flying down the hall, while Bitters, dazed, is trying to figure out why Matthews is on top of him. Why are they on the floor again?

Oh, yeah.

“God dammit, Matthews, we almost—”

“What the fuck is going on? Can’t a guy get any sleep around here?”

Shoving Matthews off him, Bitters turns on his side and comes face to face with a pair of—are those _orange slippers_?

Looking up, Bitters locks eyes with Captain Grif.

Arms crossed, annoyed frown on his face, Grif looks ready to literally bite someone’s head off.

“Hey!”

Grif tears his gaze from Bitters and looks off down the hall. Bitters follows suit, while Matthews clambers to his feet.

Palomo, Gomez, and now Captain Tucker have appeared.

“What the hell is going on?” Grif snaps.

“I was just about to ask you the same fucking question,” Tucker shoots back.

“They stole from Green Team’s kitchen,” Palomo says, jutting his chin out.

“They what?” Grif looks down at Bitters, at the coffee and junk food littering the hallway, then back at Bitters.

Bitters isn’t sure what to say at this point, so he just shrugs. If you don’t have anything to say, why make the effort to pretend you do?

Besides, Matthews could do all the talking.

“Well, you see, sir…” Matthews begins.

“Dibs,” Grif says.

“Whoa, _what_?” Tucker says, putting his hands on his hips.

“Dibs,” Grif repeats.

Bitters eases himself into a sitting position while Matthews begins wringing his hands as he looks back and forth between Grif and Tucker.

“Dude, you can’t just call _dibs_ ,” Tucker says.

“Sure I can,” Grif says.

“We technically already had dibs,” Tucker says. “Your guys just stole it!”

“Sure,” Grif says with a nod. “They stole it, then I found it here on the floor. I don’t care how it got there, not my problem. Dibs.”

“Sir, he kind of has a point,” Palomo chimes in. “According to the International—”

“Shut _up,_ Palomo,” Tucker snaps.

“According to the International Dibs Protocol,” Matthews says, “Grif gets dibs.”

Bitters thinks he must have been knocked unconscious. He’s got to be dreaming, right? Matthews? Talk back to a superior officer?

“That’s not a thing!” Tucker says with a frustrated laugh. “Now give us our shit!”

“Are you saying you wish to violate the International Dibs Protocol?” Grif asks, narrowing his eyes.

Bitters cannot believe this is going to work.

“There’s no such—fuck it, yes, Grif,” Tucker says, “I’m violating the International Dibs Protocol—now give us—”

Grif bends down, yanks one of his slippers off, and hurls it at Tucker.

“Ow—hey! Dude, what the f— _ow_!” Tucker backs up as Grif chucks his other slipper at him.

Bitters, thankful Grif’s attention is directed at Tucker and the Green Team, reaches up and gingerly touches his nose.

It fucking hurts.

No blood though, that’s a plus. With a groan, Bitters pushes himself to his feet.

Matthews is slowly backing away as Tucker flings the slippers back at Grif, who then picks the slippers up and chucks them again. One of the slippers bounces off Matthews’s head. He yelps, catches the slipper, and hurls it right into Palomo’s face.

Palomo blinks.

A huge grin splits across his face then, and he lets out a yell as he sprints at Matthews.

“OhmygodI’msosorryIdidn’tmean—”

But Matthews doesn’t get to finish telling Palomo what he didn’t mean, because the Green Team member tackles him to the floor.

Without thinking, Bitters grabs Palomo and pulls him off Matthews. Then he snatches up some granola bars and begins pelting Palomo with them.

“Jesus _fuck_ you guys, fine—I take it back, keep the goddamn snacks just—” Tucker starts to say, but Grif cuts him off.

“You’ve already violated the International Dibs Protocol, don’t you dare defy the No Takebacks Accords!”

Freezing mid-throw, Bitters turns to look at his captain.

Grif’s got a light in his eyes Bitters hasn’t seen in weeks—a light the orange soldier generally reserved for Simmons. There’s a smirk tugging at Grif’s face and Bitters thinks Tucker must notice it too because he shuts up and smiles back, grabbing Gomez by the collar of his shirt.

“All right, then, you asked for it _Red_ ,” Tucker says.

“Suck it, _Blue_ ,” Grif fires back.

Well, Bitters work here is done. Time to go back to bed.

With a sigh, he saunters off down the hall towards his bunk while Grif and Tucker continue to shout obscenities at one another.

“Bitters! Wait!”

_Come ooonnn_. Bitters turns around with a groan to see Matthews padding up behind him.

“What, Matthews?” he sighs.

“Aren’t you going to help Captain Grif?” Matthews asks, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

“Matthews, do I _look_ like the kind of guy who gives a shit about the International Dibs Protocol?”

Matthews opens his mouth to argue but snaps it shut. Then he gets this look on his face—this _knowing_ look—and he smiles. Bitters feels both pleased and annoyed, and this feeling only makes him more annoyed. And pleased.

“Matthews, I’m too tired for this shit,” Bitters says. With that, he heads back to his bunk and climbs into bed.

And when he’s sure Matthews isn’t lurking around the corner, when he’s sure the light’s off and everyone around him is asleep, Bitters smiles too.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a fun, short fic, but somehow ended up being one of my longest ever?
> 
> Anyway, hope it turned out okay (if not, meh it was fun to write).


End file.
